


Calla

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Anal Sex, Established Relationship, Lactation Kink, M/M, Male Lactation, Mpreg, Pregnant Sex, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-14
Updated: 2015-04-14
Packaged: 2018-03-23 00:16:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3748333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thranduil very much enjoys Bard’s new condition and the wants it gives him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Calla

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Fill for anon’s “Bard is heavily pregnant with Thranduil's baby, and very horny. Thranduil loves it. -please, no a/b/o +++swollen breasts and lactation” prompt on [The Hobbit Kink Meme](http://hobbit-kink.livejournal.com/14338.html?thread=25802242#t25802242).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Hobbit or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

He hears the sharp hitch of breath the moment he opens the doors to his chambers, followed by a languid moan. The air is warm, thick with sweat and arousal. Thranduil shuts the doors behind himself and wonders faintly why he ever left—surely, the rest of the realm can wait; Tauriel can manage the spiders on her own—there’s nothing so important as _this_.

He isn’t particularly surprised to find his lover naked, still laid out in their bed. The nightgown Thranduil dressed him in this morning has been kicked to the floor, and the mortal skin beneath the silk, silver sheets is bare and flushed, beaded here and there with sweat. Bard is squirming, moaning and writhing, both hands beneath the sheets. When he sees Thranduil, his lids only lift halfway, eyes fogged up with want. 

He rolls slowly onto his stomach, keeping the weight off by holding up on his arms, thick and muscled from years training with a bow and rowing through a frigid lake. Under Thranduil’s amused gaze, Bard pushes and kicks the sheet aside, revealing all of him, naked from head to foot. On his knees, he lifts his ass like a dog presenting. There are certain... advantages... to bedding cruder species. 

Bard groans, somewhere between begging and an order, “Thranduil, _fuck_ me.” Thranduil always loves, in particular, how his name sounds on his lover’s lips. Bard purrs it like a foreign delicacy, full of passion. His legs spread while he waits, his rear wagging in the air. The slick glimmer of oil is already sloshed down his crack, his puckered hole peeking open—he must’ve been fingering himself in Thranduil’s absence. The poor thing. Thranduil’s already deftly untying his robes as he strolls forward, slipping the shimmering fabric from his shoulders. 

It pools on the floor just as he reaches the mattress, leaving him as exposed as Bard. Perching on the edge of the bed, he removes his crown, laying it carefully on the nightstand. He is no king over Bard, just as Bard is no Master over him. He drops the back of his hand to caress Bard’s scruffy cheek, and Bard leans into it with a hungry-keening noise. Again, he hisses, “Fuck me.”

“You are already carrying my child,” Thranduil purrs, slow and luxuriating, his fingers teasingly running down Bard’s neck, over his shoulder and down his strong back, following the curve of his spine. Thranduil can see the slight swell of Bard’s belly below, not particularly far along, but enough to show the signs. “I see no need to pump anymore seed inside you...”

“Thranduil,” Bard growls in warning. It only makes Thranduil chuckle and lean down to peck Bard’s reddened forehead, while Bard uses the opportunity to thread a fist into Thranduil’s long, white-blond hair. He tugs it hard enough to make Thranduil gasp, as he so loves doing. “ _Do it._ ”

Thranduil isn’t threatened. But he is merciful. He sees the way one of Bard’s hands has disappeared back beneath his body, likely to massage his small cock and the large balls tight against his flesh. They’ve made love many times since Thranduil’s seed managed to find it’s way home, but half the point of having a true _peer_ is the ability to play freely. He needs to tease, and now he needs to be kind. 

He purrs against Bard’s ear, “I’ll give you what you need.” Like his own cock is a present. Bard’s fist hasn’t yet released his hair, so Thranduil needs to lock his own fingers around it and gently guide it open, so he can sit back to his full height. 

He climbs around behind his eager husband, and he takes his cock in hand, pumping once up the long, straight shaft, tinged pink with interest at the end and nestled in blond curls at the other. He’s already half-hard from seeing Bard this way; they had chemistry, interest, a spark from the first time they met, and it’s never quite died out. Seeing Bard’s taut cheeks trying to hide his dilating hole, leaking oil down his thighs and the backs of his balls between them, makes Thranduil fill out quickly. 

As soon as he can, he presses the head of his cock against Bard’s opening, and he places a hand at the small of Bard’s back, stroking soothingly. He needs Bard to relax. He never wants to hurt his lover, no matter how fiercely the desire sometimes comes, and he waits until Bard’s taken a steadying breath to spread his fingers across the hole. Bidding it open, he tests the give, fingertips coaxing the furrowed brim. Then he dips one finger inside, pleased that it’s easy enough to soon add a second, and he scissors Bard wider while Bard pulls a pillow to drop his head into, letting Thranduil hold up his rear. His scraggly dark hair, sometimes tied behind his head, is let loose and tumbles half across his face, clinging to his damp skin and open mouth. He’s a mess, and he’s beautiful. 

Thranduil pulls his fingers out, wiping them idly on Bard’s thigh. Then he positions himself, leaning over Bard so that his hair slips over his shoulder, the ends trailing along Bard’s back. Bard shivers at the contact. Thranduil holds himself at the ready, then pushes himself inside. 

The first thrust is always wonderful. Thranduil goes no further, gritting his teeth to hold his pleasure and loving Bard’s gasp, Bard’s tight walls seizing to try and hold him, but with the way Thranduil keeps his pressure forward, it only seems to suck him deeper. He lets himself sink inside, one slow, grueling bit at a time, and he rocks his hips back and forth to help, while Bard presses back against him, breathing hard. Every little movement is exquisite. It’s a torturously gradual way inside, but Thranduil is a patient man, and he takes his time. When he’s fully seated, Bard groans, burying himself in the pillow and trying to hump back against Thranduil’s hips. Thranduil has to hold Bard’s waist to keep him still. 

Then Thranduil lowers down, onto all fours like a stalking cat, his legs still tightly nestled against the back of Bard’s. Clenching his thighs to keep his weight from crushing down the father of his child, he wraps his arms loosely around Bard’s middle. He can feel the faint distention—the roundness that’s replaced taut muscles. As his hands explore creamy skin and coarse, dark hair, his hips roll into their first thrust, gentle but full, making Bard bounce against him and gasp. Thranduil rolls right into the next, up into a steady rhythm, grinding into Bard in a smooth, slick dance, never letting their bodies be apart for long. 

He loves every bit of flesh he feels. He smoothes his palms around Bard’s ribs, over his sides and across his chest, his pecs usually broad and flat but now slightly swollen, plump with milk. Thranduil can’t stop himself from finding Bard’s nipples and toying with them, rolling them around to make Bard moan and quiver, body straining to grind back against his cock. Thranduil’s relentless in his ministrations. He tugs and squeezes, drawing the little pebbles out and warming them in his grasp. He wants to roll Bard around so he can lick them, but that would require stopping, even for a moment, so he saves that fun for the next round. Instead, he sticks with his hands, doing everything he can to coax milk out of Bard’s chest. 

Even without the use of much magic, it isn’t difficult. Bard now carries an Elven child in him, and their connection is strong, sparked with Thranduil’s power—if he can, he’ll channel everything he has into Bard, into trying to let Bard live until the end of time with him—but for now, this will do. He opens his mouth to lave his tongue over Bard’s shoulder, pouring warmth and _adoration_ into Bard from every point of contact, and Bard writhes and cries out, his voice already hoarse from their morning rounds. Thranduil squeezes at Bard’s tits, and the milk surrenders to him, bubbling up to drizzle around his fingertips, trailing thickly over his fingers and dripping to the mattress. Thranduil just tugs them all the harder, milking his lover while he continues claiming Bard with his cock, his mouth working along Bard’s shoulder, around his neck, over his throat and along his jaw. Bard tries to kiss him, but the angle is awkward and sloppy. It makes Thranduil grin to try, Bard too far gone to do anything but moan. 

Thranduil knows when Bard gets close. He can _feel_ how dizzy Bard’s become, how overheated and sweaty and ravenous, overwhelmed and lost. Thranduil delivers every thrust faithfully, as deep inside as he can, and he leaves one hand to smooth across Bard’s leaking chest as the other dips down Bard’s stomach, between his legs, to cup his bulbous shaft. Thranduil runs his fingers everywhere, squeezing and stroking and rubbing, until Bard is trembling almost violently, and Thranduil whispers hushed into his ear, secretive and for no one else to ever know, “ _I love you_.”

Bard roars. He’s often loud, but when he comes in Thranduil’s arms, he’s thunderous, arching back into Thranduil’s body and screaming Thranduil’s name, almost unintelligible. He’s always gorgeous, but he’s especially so in that moment, and Thranduil drinks everything in: committing, like so many before, to memory.

Thranduil continues his thrusts while Bard rides his orgasm out, until Bard is spent and limp. Though his Elven stamina’s kept him hard, Thranduil gently pulls himself out of Bard’s body. He allows himself a few shallow thrusts against Bard’s back while his face nuzzles into Bard’s cheek, and then he begrudgingly relinquishes his hold. He helps turn Bard over, guiding him to lie on his back. As Bard shifts and pants, Thranduil strokes his hair away from his face, kissing each new area cleared. Thranduil ruts himself only lightly against Bard’s hip, unwilling to drive him over the edge of exhaustion with another round. 

But Thranduil can’t resist dipping to kiss his lover’s breasts. He laves down the smooth, mildly swollen expanse, catching stray beads of milk on his tongue. It’s a strange but intoxicating taste, and Thranduil gently squeezes one pec at a time to draw out more. Bard groans but doesn’t complain. When Thranduil locks his lips around one nipple to suck, Bard mewls and brings his hand back up to Thranduil’s hair, holding Thranduil’s head against him. It’s difficult for Thranduil to pull away. But he reluctantly releases the little nub, licking over the wet areola and tracing his own lips to savour the taste. 

As his hand strays to gently rub Bard’s belly, his mouth lifts to flatten over Bard’s. Three’s a small scratch, almost a tickle, from the scruff of Bard’s mustache and beard, but Thranduil’s come to enjoy the feeling. Thranduil wouldn’t have Bard any other way than exactly how he is. They kiss until Bard lazily turns away, sighing, “Thank you.”

“You say that as though I didn’t enjoy myself as well,” Thranduil muses, despite his continued hardness. Before the child, and surely after, Thranduil would take Bard far past mortal limits, claim him for hours on end with the veracity of Elven love, but for the moment, the importance of proper rest prevails. Bard plays with Thranduil’s hair, sweeping a few displaced strands back behind his pointed ear, grinning almost sheepishly. 

“You know, sometimes I feel like something of a freak like this. So it’s good to know you still find me attractive enough to lie with.” Bard trails his fingers down the side of Thranduil’s face, and there, Thranduil grabs Bard’s hand in his own. 

He brings it to his lips and promises, “You are always beautiful to me.” He means it. And he thinks Bard must see it in his eyes, because that grin strengthens. Bard is a truly impressive creature: able to slay dragons, dance with elves, befriend dwarves, and raise happy, loving children. He makes a more than worthy mate, his status as the bearer of Thranduil’s child only making him all the more important in Thranduil’s life.

Thranduil means to say so, as he so often does, despite his pride and stoic nature always holding him back. With his hand over Bard’s stomach, where the heartbeat of their child will grow, it’s easier to convince himself to admit all of these truths. 

But before he can, Bard mutters, “I want pickles.”

And Thranduil can’t stop himself from grinning. He brings pecks Bard’s hand again and promises, “I will bring you some.”

“You don’t have to,” Bard chuckles, though Thranduil is already climbing over him and slipping off the bed, gathering up fallen robes. 

Sitting down with the fabric half up his legs, Thranduil says, “You wish for something, I will bring it to you.” With a sly grin, he glances over his shoulder to add, “And it will give you time to recover for our next round.” When he arranges his robes in a certain way, he can somewhat hide his waning erection, though he knows it will return the minute Bard shows interest again. From Bard’s wide smile, Thranduil gathers that this arrangement is acceptable. 

When Bard throws out his arm, Thranduil comes in for one last kiss, then extracts himself to fetch whatever his husband might ask of him.


End file.
